


For Life

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Intercrural Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Mating Bites, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: It was an accident--Scott never meant to bite Stiles.





	For Life

 

_Auto-de-fe and judgement_

_Are nothing to the bee;_

_His separation from his Rose_

_To him seems misery_

_\--_ Two Worlds, Emily Dickinson

 

            The room swelled with sunlight, bright and beautiful. Everything glowed, the air soft and warm with the breeze coming in through the window. It smelled of summer—the sizzle of heat and melted rubber on asphalt. The sky soared above, dotted with cotton ball clouds. Sweat beaded down Scott’s back, clinging to his t-shirt. His mouth buzzed with the sugary fizz of coke. His salted fingertips glistened from where he’d licked them.

            “Dude,” Stiles wrinkled his nose, “not on the controller.”

            “Sorry.” Scott wiped his hand on his jeans. “Another round?”

            They clicked through the options menu, selected their cars and course. Stiles stuffed a handful of Cheetos into his mouth while the game loaded. Scott noticed the orange dusting on his lips. He concentrated on the animated countdown.

_3…2…1!_

            Stiles pulled into an early lead, Scott hot on his tail. They leapt over ravines, whipping round sharp turns, Scott tilting onto one hip to will his car round the curve. Stiles’ tongue, gripped between his teeth, poked out of his mouth, a dash of pink on pink. Scott careened into a wall.

            “Losing your edge there, Scotty.” Stiles grinned wolfish as he slipped into first place.

            “Not on your life.”

            Back hunched over, Scott’s brow furrowed. The joystick obeyed the mad dashes of his thumb, the _click_ of the buttons lost under the screech of tires and the roar of engines. The gap between their cars shortened, the colorful taillights of Stiles’ vehicle growing steadily larger on Scott’s screen. Until, suddenly, a hand shot in front of his face.

            “Dude!” Scott bobbed and weaved his face around Stiles’ hand, catching glimpses of the screen, but Stiles was nothing if not persistent. With his free hand he joggled the joystick, his acceleration decimated, his steering all but shot. “Come on, no fair.”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Scott didn’t have to turn to look to know Stiles had a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He inched closer to the finish line. “Looks like another victory for—hey!”

            Stiles lunged for the controller Scott had snatched from his hands, but he held it aloft and back, out of his reach. Game forgotten, Stiles scrambled up Scott, face smothered in Stiles’ chest, as he grabbed for the controller. Their combined weight tipped Scott back, till they rolled on the floor. Soon, they no longer fought for control, wrestling instead for the sheer joy of dominance.

            “Okay,” Stiles huffed from beneath Scott, who had flipped him easily, pinning him to the ground by laying his body atop Stiles’, “no fair. Werewolf powers are cheating.”

            “And you’d know a thing or two about cheating, wouldn’t you?” Scott’s chin nestled in the mop of Stiles’ hair. He could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, the smell of him thick in his nostrils. Scott’s body reacted without his bidding, years of unspoken feeling churning towards the surface. He flushed, and was thankful that all Stiles could see was the fine stitching on his t-shirt.

            “You tell me.” Stiles dug his fingers into Scott’s sides. Scott howled with laughter, instantly loosening his grip enough for Stiles to worm his way out. Never once letting up on his assault, Stiles clambered on top of Scott, jabbing his fingers into his armpits as he squirmed and shrieked.

            “No more, mercy, mercy!” Scott pleaded as tears beaded in the corners of his eyes, but Stiles continued on, relentless. Scott’s belly ached, his sides splitting. He batted at Stiles’ hands, but he was quick like mercury, slipping between his arms, stupid _told-you-so_ grin beaming down at him. His breath came in ragged, stolen bursts; Scott felt like he was dying. Stiles’ face broke out impossibly wider, his smile pure sunshine, and Scott figured that if death looked like this, he’d welcome it gladly.

            Scott swung an arm round Stiles’ neck, pulling him in close. He muzzled his face with his chest, worming a knuckle into the soft crown of his head. Stiles squealed, but refused to let up, fingers digging into the tender pits of Scott’s arms. His hair fell across Scott’s face, filling his mouth and nose. The thick, heady scent of his shampoo, underlined with that unmistakable _Stiles_ smell clouded his mind like fog. Despite the flush overtaking his neck and face, a contingent of blood rushed to his lap as Stiles wormed on top of him. The collar of Stiles’ shirt had slipped down his collarbone, so the bare skin of his shoulder loomed before Scott, the thinnest sheen of sweat coating him. Stiles angled to poke at Scott’s upper back, scooting forward, so his neck nudged Scott’s mouth. His lips formed a chaste skin as Stiles pressed his weight forward.

            Scott did not feel his fangs descend or his lips part. Stiles yelped, one short, sharp cry, as the copper taste of blood flooded Scott’s mouth.

            For a moment the world stood still. Stiles’ hands fell away as he sat up, scooting off of Scott’s lap. He brought shaky fingers to his throat; they came back tinged red, the delicate puncture wounds weeping down his chest. Instinctively, Scott darted his tongue across his mouth, wiping his lips clean of the evidence. Stiles looked at him, strange, incomprehension clouding his eyes. Like looking at a stranger.

            “Scott, you—”

            “Stiles, I’m sorry, Stiles I’m so _sorry_.” Scott scrambled to his knees, reaching for Stiles, but he drew back.

            “You bit me.”

            A wave of nausea overtook him, and Scott hurried to the bathroom. He vomited into the toilet, mouth filled with the bitter burn of stomach acid. He rinsed with water from the sink, walking back out into the room on unsure legs. Stiles sat, motionless, where he’d left him, lost gaze searching the wall for answers, fingers hovering over the still bleeding wound at his neck. Scott rummaged through the medicine cabinet, came out with gauze and bandages, which he offered in supplication at Stiles’ feet.

            “Thanks.” Stiles sounded far away, an afterthought. He rose slowly, legs wobbling, and it took all the strength Scott had not to scoop him up into his arms, not to carry him. He listened to the water run as Stiles cleaned himself up. Scott sat on the floor, hands balled into fists, sharp bite of his claws deep in the meat of his palm. His shoulders shook with the weight of suppressed sobs. _How could he have…to Stiles, his best friend, his_ —

            “Does it, uh, look okay?” Stiles hovered in the doorway of the bathroom, tugging at the collar of his shirt, the white of the bandage stark against his flushed face. Like snowfall in July. Scott blinked, drew his claws back in, nodded once. “Good.” Stiles scuffed the carpet with his toe, wandered over to Scott’s bed and let himself sink onto it. The mattress squeaked.

            “Stiles, I’m—”

            “Yeah, I know.” His voice, weighed down by defeat, barely reached Scott’s ears. But there was no malice; it was devoid of hate, or rage. How he wished Stiles would shout at him, yell, smash something. Anger Scott knew from years spent hiding in the shadows of his father’s drunken tantrums. Anger he could confront. But this…this sad, tired acceptance of something he’d never asked for, never wished for. This was beyond Scott, a burden he did not know how to share. “It was an accident. It _was_ an accident, right?”

            “Yes,” Scott promised as he crawled to the foot of the bed, clutching Stiles’ hand in desperation, “it was, I swear.” Scott wanted to blame the looming full moon, the summer heat, his own inexperience, excuses all of them, and he’d never lied to Stiles, so he told him the truth. “I don’t know what happened.”

            Stiles nodded, numb, fingers playing over the layer of gauze wrapped round his neck. A weak smile tugs at his mouth. “Guess you’re not the only werewolf in town anymore.”

            “I was never the only werewolf in town.”

            Stiles cuffed him on the ear and laughed, and for the first time Scott thought, just maybe, they’d make it through this alive.

 

            Scott dropped an armful of chains at Stiles feet.

            “You know, Scotty, most guys just settle for flowers and chocolates.” His tone was light and jokey, but Scott knew Stiles used humor to deflect. He could hear the anxious uptick of his heartbeat. “You sure these will hold me?”

            “Worked on me. And Malia. And Liam.” Scott knelt to wrap a length of chain through the metal loop bolted to the foundation in the basement of Lydia’s lake house.

            “Yeah, but, I’m like, _super_ special. I’m pretty sure I’m gunna be the new top dog around here. What’s above a True Alpha?”

            “Nothing, as far as I know.”

            “Well, whatever it is, I’m gunna be it.” Stiles smiled as he crouched down next to Scott, feeding him more chain to loop and lock into place. And despite the fact he knew it was all an act, Scott couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across his face.

            “You’re taking this whole _I’m turning into a werewolf_ thing surprisingly well.”

            “After the third time, it sorta loses its shock value, you know? Besides, I’ll finally be able to overhear the shit Liam talks about me behind my back.”

            “I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”

            “So you admit he talks about me behind my back!”

            Scott laughed and snapped the lock shut. He tugged on the chain to ensure they were secure. He stood, hands on his hips. He let his eyes roll over to Stiles, who gnawed on the tip of a finger.

            “Have you…” Scott cleared his throat and shifted his weight to the other foot. “Have you told anyone yet?”

            “Nah.” Stiles toed at a pile of chain, listened to them rattle. “Figured I’d make my big coming out when everything was said and done.”

            “You just want to eavesdrop without anyone knowing.”

            “That is an added benefit, yes.” Scott surprised himself by smiling. Despite everything, Stiles kept an easy attitude. Scott excepted hurt betrayal, or at least frustration. But beyond the tinge of anxiety wafting through the air, which generally clung to Stiles like sweat after a lacrosse game, Scott couldn’t detect any worry.

            “Are you sure you want me here?” The question had been needling at Scott all day, since they’d set out to gather supplies and prepare for the evening’s full moon. “I mean, it’s not too late, we could call Malia or—”

            “Dude.” Scott looked at Stiles and he almost looked offended. He reached out and laid a hand on Scott’s arm. “There’s no one else I’d rather have help me through this.” Something warm spread out from Scott’s chest down to his toes and he hoped the heat on his face was just busted A/C. “Besides, you owe me. Do you know how many sleepless full moons I suffered through?”

            “Plenty.” Scott huffed out a breath and checked the time. “We have a couple more hours before sunset. Is there anything you need to do before…” Scott waved a hand in the air. “You know.”

            “What, any last minute items on my Human Bucket List? Guess I could go eat some wolfsbane.”

            “You do know it’s toxic for humans too, right?”

            “Hmm, well, in that case, I think I’m good. Maybe we should just order some pizza. Hopefully I’ll be less inclined to murder you and eat your face on a full stomach.”

            Scott checked and double checked the chains while Stiles ordered them an extra-large with mushrooms and olives. He made sure the deadbolts were in place on any possible exits, and removed most of the valuables from the basement, stashing them in a spare bedroom closet upstairs. When he made his way back down to the basement, Stiles was sitting cross legged on the floor, mouth gaping open as he dangled a slice of pizza in the air.

            “Lydia has plates, you know.”

            “Yeah, and are _you_ gunna wash ‘em?” Stiles asked around a mouthful of dough and cheese.

            Scott shrugged in defeat and joined Stiles, scooping up a slice and shoving half of it into his mouth. For a moment Scott allowed himself to forget. For a moment he was just a boy, sitting on the floor, licking grease off his fingers, laughing with his friend. His best friend. They acted like this was any other Friday, talking about Greenberg’s party on Saturday and dueling with pizza crusts. When an olive fell off the slice Scott was feeding into his mouth and landed perfectly on the tip of his nose, Stiles doubled over with laughter and nearly chocked. Their knees knocked together, and for a solid four minutes neither of them moved.

            “If I eat another bite I’m going to explode.” Stiles flopped onto his back, rubbing his distended belly with a groan.

            “Does that mean I can have the last slice?” Scott was already biting into a gooey hunk of melted cheese when Stiles waved his consent. Stiles had rolled over onto his stomach by the time Scott came back from throwing out the box and washing his hands. He checked his watch, peered out the window, watched the dying light splay across the lake in streaks of burnt orange. “We should, uh, we should probably…”

            “Right.” Stiles huffed to his knees, moved to lean his back against the wall and began fitting the metal cuffs around his wrists.

            “Here, let me help,” Scott said, because it was the right thing to do. Because this was his fault, and he owed Stiles this. Because Stiles had done the exact same thing for him. Not because it meant his fingers got to ghost over the pale skin of Stiles’ wrist, got to touch and slide his sleeve up his arm. Not because it gave Scott an excuse to kneel next to him, to step into his personal space and breathe deep that mix of sweat and pencil shaving and store brand hair gel that blended together around the unmistakable _humanness_ that at this very moment was fleeing from before his very eyes.

            Stiles gave the chain an experimental tug. They rattled as they pulled taunt, then sagged back onto the ground. “Guess it’s too late to use the bathroom.”

            “Want to play cards?” Scott pulled a deck out of his back pocket. “We’ve got a little time till moonrise, and you might not feel it right away.” He opened the deck and pulled out the cards. His fingers ruffled through them as he shuffled. “It’ll take your mind off it.”

            “What,” Stiles licked his lips and stilled his tapping foot, “do I seem nervous?”

            Scott’s nose wrinkled at the sour tang of anxiety that sliced the air. “It’ll take _my_ mind off it. Indulge me.” He dealt them each a hand.

            “Fine,” Stiles scooped up the cards and fanned them out in front of his face, “but we’re _not_ playing Texas Hold ‘em. Not after last time.”

            They played for paperclips, a box of which Scott found in a junk drawer upstairs. His mind wasn’t in the game, eyes glassy and unfocused, and within the hour Stiles amassed a small, metal mountain. They switched to war, then gin rummy. Between every hand his eyes flicked to the large, bay windows, watching the sky slowly darken.

            “Another round?” Scott asked as Stiles threw down a winning hand.

            “As much as I enjoy kicking your butt, I think I’ll pass.” Stiles shifted, chains rattling. He arched his back off the wall, twisting an arm around to rub it. “You know, I get that these are to prevent me from running off on a murderous rampage, but do they have to be so damn uncomfortable?” Stiles stretched and rolled his shoulders, but the deep ridge between his eyes persisted. “Couldn’t we loosen them a little?”

            “We both know that’s a bad idea.” Scott put the cards away to give his hands something to do. Stiles continued to twist and roll his muscles, soft grunts of frustration dropping like acorns. “What if I—” Scott scooted closer, knees bracketing Stiles, as he gripped his shoulders. His fingers kneaded into the tense muscle, which gradually softened beneath his touch. Scott rose onto his knees to jimmy for a better angle as he massaged the tension out of Stiles’ neck, fingers working their way down to his upper back. Stiles slumped forward, eyes shut in rapture, lips parted ever so slightly. A low, quiet moan slipped from his mouth in a blissful wail.

            “If veterinary school doesn’t work out, you should consider massage therapy.”

            Scott smiled despite the strain in his arm. The angle was less than ideal, but the sight of Stiles melting with relief was more than worth it. He worked his hands down his spine as best he could, kneading the tough mounds of his shoulders.

            “Can you scooch a little?” Scott huffed, muscles in his arms beginning to warm with effort.

            “Uh,” Stiles lifted an arm and gave the chains a rattle, “not really.”

            “Okay, well, let me—” Scotts’ fingers stilled and Stiles went rigid.

            “Don’t!” His cheek colored crimson. “Please don’t stop. It, it feels nice. It’s…relaxing.” Stiles balled his hands into fists on his thighs, and Scott noticed that the musk of nervous energy that had previously permeated the air had dissipated. Stiles fixed his eyes on the floor while a blush crept up his neck.

            “I’m not, I promise, I just, the angle—”

            “You could, uh,” Stiles licked his lips, darted his eyes to Scott before dropping them to the ground, “you could get behind me, maybe? If it’d help.”

            “Yeah,” Scott heard himself agreeing before his brain had even processed the words, “yeah, sure. Let me just…”

            Scott lifted onto his knees and slotted his body in behind Stiles, who scrunched forward as far as he could. Scott huffed and squeezed his leg in between Stiles and the wall, before spreading out in a wide V. He settled against the wall and eased Stiles back onto his chest. His hips slotted neatly between Scott’s thighs; Scott ignored the sudden, southern migration of his blood.

            “Is this okay?” Stiles asked as he leaned his weight into Scott.

            “Yeah,” Scott answered honestly, because nothing had ever been more okay in his life, “it is.” His fingers found Stiles’ shoulders once more. They kneaded and pressed, working up his neck to tangle in the base of his hair. His nails scratched at the back of his scalp and Stiles turned to jelly in his lap. One hand stayed tangled in the mess of his hair while the other worked between his shoulder blades. Stiles unfolded his legs from out beneath him and sank further into Scott’s embrace. When Scott moved to ease the tension out of his arms, Stiles let his head loll back onto Scott’s shoulder. His cheek brushed Scott’s and his face went hot.

            “Did that,” Scott cleared his throat and willed himself still, praying Stiles would not wiggle against his crotch, “did that help?”

            “Yeah.” Stiles’ voice had gone sleepy-quiet, his eyes half-lidded against the glare of the lamplight. “A lot. You always,” Stiles let a hand drop onto Scott’s knee, thumb rubbing at the denim, “you’re always there for me, Scott.” Stiles curled up against Scott’s chest as his eyes drooped shut.

            “Do you want me to—?”

            “ _Shh_ ,” Stiles whispered, nuzzling against Scott’s neck. “Just…stay? I don’t…I don’t want to be alone, when it happens.”

            Something delicate broke in Scott’s chest. He wrapped his arms tight around Stiles’ waist, hugging him close. “You’re not alone, Stiles. You’ve got me.”

            A lazy smile tugged at the drowsy corner of Stiles’ mouth. “Had you before.”

            Scott buried his grin in the crown of Stiles’ head, nose lost in the smell of his hair. “And you still got me. You always will.”

            Stiles’ heartbeat slowed along with his breathing. He felt warm and soft in Scott’s arms, and soon a bone-deep ease seeped into his skin. His eyelids grew heavy as his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the man in his arms. He settled deeper against the wall, letting his head rest against Stiles’. Slow as moonrise he drifted off to sleep.

 

            The first rays of sunlight fell across Scott’s face. He blinked his eyes open, squinting at the harsh light of dawn. His left arm had gone numb sometime in the night. As he wiggled it, pin and needles crept down his fingertips. Stiles lay curled against his chest. His legs had gotten tangled up with Scott’s, and his mouth hung open, a thin line of drool pooling on Scott’s shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Not with the tension smoothed from Stiles’ face, and the warmth of him seeping into his chest. He reached a hand up to stroke his hair. Stiles’ eyelids fluttered open and he stretched with a yawn.

            “Morning.” Scott whispered, afraid to shatter the delicate silence of the moment.

            “You’ve got morning breath.” Stiles wrinkled his nose as he sat up best he could still chained to the wall. “I think I’d got a crick in my neck.” Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck, twisting out the soreness from his spine.

            “Yeah well, at least _you_ got a pillow.”

            “And _you_ got a blanket.” Stiles poked a finger into Scott’s belly. “But seriously, my neck is killing me.” He rolled his head and winced in pain. His fingers shot up to the collar of his shirt, which he tugged down. Scott eyed the bandage, the white stained with twin dots of red.

            “Let me see that.” He peeled back the gauze to reveal fresh, weeping wounds. He touched the flesh around them gingerly. Stiles winced and shied away.

            “Careful, that hurts.”

            Scott’s brow furrowed. “Why haven’t they healed…” Scott shimmied out from behind Stiles, coming to kneel before him. He fixed Stiles with an analyzing stare. “Open your mouth.”

            “You can trust me on the morning breath, Scotty.”

            “Open your mouth.” Scott’s voice went low, heavy with command, and his eyes flashed red. Stiles swallowed, once, and opened his mouth. Two, perfect rows of ordinary human teeth. “Where are your fangs?”

            “Ah dhon’t—”

            “You can close your mouth.”

            “I don’t know. Isn’t this more of your area of expertise?”

            “Do you remember anything from last night?” Scott checked the chains—they hadn’t been torn loose or tampered with in any visible way. Stiles clothes were all still intact. The tips of his fingers ended in blunt, human nails. “Stiles, anything at all?”

            “No, I mean we—” Stiles blushed and looked away. “We fell asleep and that’s it. Unless amnesia is part of it? Could I have wolfed out without remembering?”

            “Not without waking me.”

            The silence hung heavy between them. Scott listened to the uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat, the air suddenly tinged with a note of anxiety.

            “What does this mean?” Stiles whispered.

            “I don’t know. But I think I know someone who does.”

 

            They stopped for breakfast on the way to Deaton’s office. Stiles picked at his egg sandwich between nervous sips of his coffee. Scott had taken one bite and realized he had no appetite. His stomach was too tied up in knots to even think about food. Deaton waved them inside, closing the examination room door. He leveled a concerned, knowing gaze on them both.

            “What seems to be the trouble?”

            “We, I mean I, uh, you see we were hanging out and—”

            “Scott bit me.” Stiles darted a glance from Deaton to Scott. “On accident. Yesterday afternoon.”

            “The full moon was yesterday.” Deaton’s eyes narrowed as he gave Stiles a once over. “Stiles, did you attack someone during your transformation?”

            “No. The opposite really. That’s why we’re here.” Stiles tapped his foot against the ground, his fingers jittering across the stainless steel table. “I, uh, failed to transform. Performance anxiety, probably.” No one laughed.

            Deaton looked from Stiles to Scott and back. “You mean to tell me you experienced no supernatural alterations last night?” Stiles shook his head.

            “If Stiles didn’t transform, if he’s…if he’s not a werewolf, does that mean…?” Scott’s throat felt tight, the words painful to speak. The wretched truth weighed heavy on his heart, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t accept it, not unless Deaton—

            “I’m sorry.” Deaton laid a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes mournful. “If the bite doesn’t turn you…”

            “…it kills you.” Stiles spoke softly, as if to himself. His shoulders sagged, the light leaving his face. “There’s…there’s no cure, is there? Nothing we can do?”

            Deaton’s forehead creased deep as an ax wound, and he gave Stiles’ shoulder a consoling squeeze. “I’m sorry, Stiles. For whatever reason, the bite has failed to change you. I don’t know of anything that we can do, at this point.”

            “What if I bite him again? Or another alpha? What if—”

            “Scott, it’s,” Stiles turned to look at him, and Scott’s heart broke to see the wet shimmer of his eyes, “it’s okay. How long, uh, how long do I have?”

            “I’ve never heard of someone lasting more than 72 hours.” The air in the examining room grew heavy with unspoken words. Stiles nodded, physically there but gone, lost to them. He licked his lips and Scott hated himself for wanting.

            “Thanks, Doc. Come on, Scotty.” Stiles slipped out from beneath Deaton’s hand and made for the door. Scott felt rooted to the spot.

            “Stiles, we, we’ve got to—there’s got to be something we can do.” Scott implored Deaton, but the vet simply dropped his gaze to the ground.

            “You heard him. I’ve got 48 hours at best. I don’t want to waste them here—no offense.”

            They didn’t speak on the ride to Scott’s. His insides felt torn apart; if he coughed, he would have expected blood. Stiles focused on the road, hands clenched tight on the wheel. He’d failed to turn the radio on, the only sound the rush of wind past them and the thunderous _doomdoomdoom_ of Scott’s heart. He didn’t turn into Scott’s driveway, but idled in the street instead. He kept his face pointed forward. Scott’s mouth filled with words he could not say. He slipped out the passenger door, watched the jeep fade off down the road, watched till it turned a corner. Watched, even then.

 

            The hours of the day had never seemed so interminable. No test, no detention or extra practice laps, could ever compare to the slow agony of waiting for your best friend to die.

            The late morning light, which streamed in through Scott’s open window to fall like leaves across his pillow, shone too brightly for such a somber day. The air, full of sweat and fresh-cut grass, chocked him, clogging his throat with each shuddering breath. He walked numbly to the edge of his bed and collapsed.

            A tight knot of despair clawed at his stomach, nails sunk deep into the muscle of his heart. With the heel of his palm he dug at his eyes, beating the tears away. His shoulders shook with the effort to keep it all inside, to contain it, to not fall apart. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury, not when there was so little time, not when he should be formulating a plan, putting on a brave face, figuring out how he could save—

            The thought hit him like a freight train, his chest squeezing so tight he worried he was having an asthma attack. _Stiles_. The knobby-kneed boy who’d stood up for him on the playground against a pack of boys three years older than them and twice their size. The teenager who’d stolen a bra from the mall so they could practice unhooking it, even volunteering to be the model. The friend who’d stood by him as the beast inside him ripped its way free, who’d never once thought of fleeing. The man he loved. The man he’d killed.

            His egg-shell chest broke and yolk ran down all his insides. He sobbed into his pillow, pressed close over his mouth to muffle the sound. Tears stung his eyes before sliding wet down the precipice of his cheeks. His back rose and fell in waves, shoulders shaking the bed, with the enormity of the grief pouring out of him.

            He’d been a coward. For years he had known the swell of affection every time Stiles walked into the room had shifted from fraternal to romantic. The times he imaged the weight of Stiles beside him, the mattress dipping in the middle, their hips knocking together as their mouths found the others’. At night he laid awake, body flush with the thought of him, lips ghosting over imagined skin, rich with the taste of sweat and licorice.

            Time and time again he’d wanted to tell him, to confess the secrets that itched beneath his fingernails whenever he let his hand linger a second too long on the gentle curve of Stiles’ back. But his mouth would fill with too much possibility, terror seizing his throat. How many love stories had ended with a _what if_? Whatever bond they’d forged within the furnace of adolescence, on the scorched asphalt and between the clouds of steam in the locker room, Scott cherished it more than any potential promised by a clumsy confession. And still, as he wept into the folds of his comforter, Scott could not help but curse his own cowardice, for fearing all that could be lost now that he had truly lost everything. The ache in his chest, so similar to the pulsing bruise over his heart whenever Stiles’ gaze lingered on the flash of thigh of a passing cheerleader, crept into the deepest parts of his being, till he could no longer tell if he mourned his friend, or what could have been. But then, perhaps, that was the bitterest truth of all, that grief was indistinguishable from love. That the chocked up hurt of unspoken words, of wishes left unfulfilled, was simply grief of another sort. Grief, Scott realized, was simply love with nowhere to go.

            His mother found him sometime in the late afternoon. Scott roused, a gentle hand rubbing at his back. His face felt swollen, eyes puffy and red, two ugly cherries stuck in his head. The air in the room had cooled, the breeze blowing in through the open window crisp as an autumn apple. His walls were aflame with the orange-red-yellow of the dying day. Soft fingers graced his forehead, brushing the hair back behind his ear.

            “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” Melissa looked down at him, tender hurt etched into the wrinkles around her eyes. Scott curled up against the warmth of her love, laying his head in her lap. Her fingers petted the top of his head as fresh tears welled up and spilled forth.

            Scott didn’t know how long he cried, letting himself be, if but for a moment only, a child again, safe in the protection of his mother’s arms. When at last his sobs subsided and his voice was once more his own, he told her everything. The bare, naked truth of what he had done, the fatal accident that would cost him dearer than he thought possible. When he finished, cheeks wet and tear-stained, she wrapped him up in her arms and held him, gently swaying on the edge of the bed, as the moon rose heavy in the sky.

 

            Scott bounced on the balls of his feet, hesitating. The wood of Stiles’ porch creaked beneath his agitation. The tray of coffees in his hand jostled with the motion, threatening to spill over the lip of the cups and onto the ground. Inside he heard the Sheriff shuffling about. Upstairs he smelled the sweet tang of Stiles. His heart thundered.

            Each knock sounded like gunshot and his hand trembled as he stuffed it back into the pocket of his jeans. Everything in the house quieted and stilled. Slowly a pair of footsteps approached the door. The Sheriff stood, lit by the late morning light, glaring at Scott from the doorway. He made no effort to move.

            “I, uh…I brought coffee.” Scott held up the tray in offering, but John made no move to accept. His face, hardened by more tragedies than a good man should have to suffer, narrowed, eyes gone cold and steely. “I was hoping, that is, uh, is Stiles home?”

            The Sheriff’s jaw tightened, the tendons of his flushed neck sharp as bowstring. By his side his arm twitched, fingers flexing for the gun on his hip. Scott held his gaze, silently urging him to action, to hit him, to pull his gun out and shoot him through the heart or head. How much simpler this would be, if the choice was taken away from him.

            “Dad?” Stiles called from inside. “That Scott?”

            There was a final second of hesitation, and Scott could hear John’s teeth grinding before he stepped aside to let him in. Stiles stood at the top of the stairs, his hand light on the railing. A weak smile broke out across his face at the sight of Scott. The Sheriff watched him climb the stairs; Scott felt his eyes on his back as sure as the hand Stiles clapped there, ushering him into his bedroom.

            The floor was scattered with boxes, the drawers pulled out, the walls striking in their bare starkness. Stiles flopped onto the ground, folding his legs beneath him. Scott eased himself down, their knees brushing before Scott tucked his feet in closer. He handed Stiles a coffee, took a sip of his own.

            “You moving?”

            “Yeah, the neighborhood’s gone to shit. I hear a werewolf moved in across the street.”

            “Oh, wow,” Scott forced out a laugh, “heaven forbid.”

            The words were the same, the routine, well, _routine_ , but there was no heart in it. They went through the motions, jostling in the easy manner they’d smoothed any wrinkles out of, like a stone on a riverbed, over years of friendship, but Scott knew it was all forced. Stiles’ smile never reached his eyes.

            “I figured it’d be easier, you know, if I…” Stiles popped the lid off his coffee, torn a sugar packet in two and dumped in the crystal contents. He watched the swirl as he stirred. His voice went soft as torn velvet. “When my mom died, Dad kept her stuff for months. I mean, I remember this dress…it was the last dress she wore before she went into the hospital. It was this light blue that Dad loved, cause he said it brought out her eyes.” Stiles threw Scott a smile, his own eyes wet and shimmering. “They went out dancing. My Dad _hates_ dancing—two left feet. But my mom, heh, man she was legit. Practically had to drag him out the house, but nothing made her happier. Whenever they’d come back, it was like her feet didn’t even touch the ground, you know? Like she was floating.” Stiles dropped his eyes to the black ripple of his coffee. He was quiet for a long moment. Scott stifled his breath, afraid to shatter whatever tender memory Stiles was unweaving. “Mom hadn’t been well for a while. I think…I think she knew. So she got all dolled up, I mean pearls and everything. I swear, they must have gotten back at six in the morning. She woke me up, came into my room to give me a hug. I,” Stiles sniffed, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, “I remember her perfume. And that dress.” Stiles grinned till his cheeks appled. “She said she’d make pancakes for breakfast, she just wanted to get changed first. She threw the dress over the back of a chair and put on her bathrobe. But she, uh,” Stiles swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, “she got confused on the way to the kitchen, got dizzy. She fell on the stairs, hit her head. Dad took her to the hospital and she, well she…” Stiles rubbed his cheek where a smooth stream of tears had begun to fall. Scott wanted desperately, more than anything, to reach out to him, to pull him into his arms and rock until the sadness welling up inside him ran dry, wanted to bury the hurt in love until nothing but flowers could ever bloom there again. But he did not dare move, did not dare touch him. “After she died, he left her stuff the way it was. Dresser covered with makeup, her book on the nightstand. And that dress, on the chair in their bedroom. When he finally got rid of everything…it broke him, Scott. It was like losing her all over again, packing her away and saying goodbye. I just…I didn’t want him to have to do that with me.”

            Between them silence settled heavy as stone. Stiles sipped at his coffee. Scott felt chilled despite the sweltering heat. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, he laid a hand on Stiles’ wrist. He felt his pulse jump.

            “Can I help?”

            They worked quietly, folding shirts and putting books into boxes. The tension, at first palpable, gradually eased and melted, as the space between shrunk, as the electricity whenever their arms brushed reaching for a third-grade lacrosse trophy, faded to a familiar and comfortable hum. But with each drawer they emptied out, as a new section of wall was stripped bare, another piece of Scott’s heart cracked, the knife of his impending loneliness twisting into the raw wound he’d inflicted on himself. Scott tried to bury himself in the task at hand, tried to focus the nervous, shaking energy into sorting through the pile of clothes Stiles had given him, when he alighted on a white t-shirt, the collar dotted with red. His finger traced the two, small holes his fangs had made.

            “I tried to wash the blood out, but.” Stiles waved his hand and let it drop by his side. “You’d think by now I’d have figured out the secret.”

            “Stiles.”

            “I mean, I’ve tried everything, white wine, baking soda—”

            “Stiles.”

            “Still, we think we’ve got it bad, think about the other guys, those poor basta—”

            “ _Stiles._ ”

            Stiles stilled, mouth half-open. Scott’s arms shook. He ducked his face, stared at the pinprick spots of blood, _Stiles’_ blood, that he’d spilled. Tears welled up in his eyes.

            “I was just joking. Trying to lighten the mood.”

            “How?” Scott’s voice came out wrecked, thin and jagged from where it had clawed its way up out of his chest. “How can you _laugh_ at a time like this?”

            A beat, neither of them speaking. “Cause it sure as hell beats crying.” Stiles knelt on the floor and laid a hand on Scott’s shoulder. He squeezed, and Scott would have given anything to lean into that hand, to fall against Stiles’ chest, to be, just once, the comforted instead of the comforter. But he had taken everything from Stiles, had asked so much of him, he could not demand this too.

            Downstairs the doorbell rang. Stiles looked up, rubbing at his face as he stood. Scott watched him from the floor.

            “That’s probably Lydia. I, uh, made some calls. Figured I should get through the goodbyes before…” Stiles stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a keen interest in the upturned corner of the rug, which he flipped with his toe. “Do you want to—?”

            “No. You go. I’ll keep packing.” Scott tried to seem productive and efficient, but the tired draw of his eyes made him come off as grim, his smile more grimace than grin.

            He tried not to listen, tried not to hear Lydia’s gasp, the soft sound of her sobs, muffled against Stiles’ chest. He wanted to lose himself in the work, but every book he plucked off the shelf, every piece of lacrosse equipment, every ticket stub swelled with memory. Scott was awash in remembering—the time they snuck into three movies in a day, when Stiles tried to win a contest by eating his weight in ice cream and was sick all over the backseat of Roscoe, the very first goal he ever scored on the field. Scott floated through the room, touching reverently, fingers tracing the spine of yearbooks he’d scrawled messages into that ate up three-quarters of the page. His head swam with the heady scent of his best friend. Every shirt he touched he held up to his nose and inhaled deeply, wishing to drown.

            After Lydia came Malia, then Kira, Liam, Mason. Scott listened to them all, listened to that exact point of heartbreak when the news crashed over them. Stiles danced around the question as delicately as he could, but even he had his limits, and time after time he unfolded the truth of what had happened, never blaming Scott, at least out loud. By the final hug, the sun had sunk to the tree line, the sky aflame. Stiles climbed the stairs, opening his bedroom door to find everything packed away, the boxes tucked against the far wall. He paused in the doorway, cut short.

            “It’s…wow. I didn’t think it’d look so…empty.”

            The room looked how Scott felt—hollowed out. His chest ached and he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He cleared his throat and stood.

            “Did they, uh, I mean, was it, how did it—”

            “It was fine. I mean, as fine as telling all your friends you’re going to die can go.” Stiles walked into his room in a daze, the blankness of the walls blinding. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes. “I think Liam dribbled snot on my shirt.” He pulled it up and over his head. Scott’s eyes dragged hungry over the taunt plain of his stomach, the pink of his nipples emblazoned against the white fields of his chest. And there, a sudden snowfall, the white bandage at the base of his neck, speckled with two dots of red. Scott buried his gaze in the ground. “Can you hand me that?”

            Remembering himself, Scott handed over the t-shirt he’d been holding. Stiles sniffed it before he forced his head and arms through the holes. They stood in silence, each reluctant to meet the other’s eye. The room swelled with the scent of approbation, of hesitant unease. And something other, some spiced musk, layered beneath the overwhelming dread, but still somehow able to slice through it like steel. Scott’s head swam.

            “Did you want to stay for dinner?” Stiles looked at Scott from behind the cover of his eyelashes, his cheeks the faintest shade of pink. “I mean, if you’re hungry, I just figured you’d…” Stiles shrugged, fisted his hands in his pockets, scuffed the carpet with his toe.

            And Scott did, he _wanted_ , more than he could put into words and it terrified him, terrified him that this ache in his chest would never go away, would only grow and grow until he cracked open and it all spilled forth. He wanted to reach out, to touch Stiles, to pull him close and breathe him in deep, to tuck him away inside, to hide him in his body, somewhere no one could get to him, somewhere he’d be safe. He wanted to memorize the pattern of his moles, wanted to commit his laugh to memory, wanted to preserve the vanishing artifice. Wanted to spend these final hours confessing every sin, every secret he’d ever held from him, wanted to worship on his knees in the church of his name, be remade holy and blameless in the scorching fire of his love.

            The bedroom door swung open and the Sheriff hovered in the doorway. The air grew cold; he narrowed his eyes at Scott. “I ordered a pizza. Should be here in about half an hour. Are you boys bout done?”

            “Yeah,” Scott hurried to answer. “I was just leaving.”

            Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stiles’ face fall, saw him reach out, his fingers twitching an inch towards him. But then he brushed past John, nearly tumbling down the stairs in his haste, cheeks stained wet, heart so heavy in his throat he worried he’d choke.

 

            Scott did not go home. His mother worked the graveyard shift. If she hadn’t left already, she’d just now be getting up, getting dressed, leaving the house. She’d call in sick, if he asked, but why should she go out of the way for him, why should his own misfortune come, always, at the inconvenience of others? Had he not asked enough of the world?

            Instead, his feet took him to the preserve. He marched aimlessly, hugging the shadows, dodging the yellow halos of lamplights. Asphalt shifted to gravel, then to dirt and leaves. Twigs snapped beneath his sneakers, the wind rustling through branches sounded like hurried whispers. It made Scott feel, if not less alone, less secluded. There was a comfort to the press of trees as he dove deeper into the woods.

            He didn’t know when he began to cry. Not the mad, wild sobs that had nearly torn through him as he fled from Stiles’ home, but rather the ceaseless flow of agony and despair whenever his mind turned to the friend he was soon to lose. No matter how often he wiped at his face, fresh tears sprang forth, till his shirt was soaked and clung to his chest. He pulled his jacket closer; a chill ran up his spine as a breeze ruffled his hair.

            The trees gave way to a clearing, ending in an abrupt outcropping of rock, which overlooked the town. Overhead the stars seemed like so much spilled salt, the waning moon still heavy in the sky. Not for the first time, Scott cursed it, damned it for all it had done to him, everything it had taken. It sat there, for all it’s worth a distant, uncaring rock, and watched him.

            Scott wandered to the overlook and peered at the town below. Despite the late hour, lights still twinkled, their soft, yellow haze gentle as fireflies. Everything he’d ever known, everyone he’d ever loved, nestled somewhere in the valley below. Soon, there would be one less.

            A terrible ache radiated out from Scott’s chest. He kneaded his fingers above his heart, but nothing seemed to alleviate the awful soreness. Tears stung his eyes; he ground his palm into them, blinking them clear. He kicked a pebble over the edge and listened to it tumble. He counted the seconds before he heard it hit the ground, the sound distant, barely audible above the whisper of the wind.

            The toe of Scott’s sneaker teetered over the edge. A breeze whipped his jacket, blowing his hair across his face. How easy it would be, he thought, to take that single step forward. To plummet into the cold, hard earth’s embrace. Even he couldn’t heal after that. Scott lifted his leg, shifted his weight forward, opened his arms as he stepped forward and—

            Behind him a twig snapped underfoot. He whirled around, red eyes searching in the dark. On the edge of the clearing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, Stiles stood in the shadows, bracketed by trees. His scent filled Scott’s nose, tinged with his worry and doubt. Scott stepped back from the edge.

            “Sorry, I,” Stiles stepped closer, reaching out, then stopped, stuffing his hand back in his pocket, “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just, I couldn’t—”

            “—couldn’t sleep? Yeah, me neither.” They stood a few feet apart, but the distance to Scott seemed cavernous. He expected his voice to echo. “Did you walk all the way here?”

            Stiles shook his head. “No, I drove.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “I parked down by the edge of the preserve. I thought maybe a walk would help clear my head.” He turned to sweep his gaze over the lush canopy of leaves, which rustled in the night air. A quiet, sad smile tugged at his lips. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

            “What is?” Scott asked, unable to see anything about the last 48 hours that even remotely resembled humor.

            “This. Us. Ending up here. Where it all started.” Stiles worried his fingers together, his cheeks plumped, smile cutting. “I mean, just think. If I hadn’t dragged you out of bed that night we—”

            “—we wouldn’t have been able to save everyone we did.” Scott’s palm itched. He longed to reach out, to grab Stiles’ hand from out his pocket, to still his nervous jittering.

            “Yeah, well, not everyone.” Stiles’ voice barely rose above a whisper, but his words thundered in Scott’s ears. His heart ripped in too and he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the trembling travelling up his arm, the growing tightness in his throat, he opened his mouth to breathe and only a choked, half-strangled sob bubbled out. Something gripped his chest and his knees went weak and his head spun like it did when he was twelve, trying to keep up on the lacrosse field. His vison blurred and he felt the ground rise up to smack into his knees. His claws dug into dirt, ripping up clumps of grass, and—he can’t breathe, can’t draw in a breath, the tendons on his neck gone rope-taunt, head pounding and he’s—he’s going to die, this is it, everything goes dark and his heart races like mad and he’s more afraid than he’s been since, since—

            Stiles knelt down beside him, wrapped an arm around him to steady him, his other hand gripping Scott’s jaw, turning it towards him. Something pressed against his lips, parting them, forcing its way into his mouth. When he heard the _puff_ he breathed in on instinct. There was a second of stillness, as if the whole world were suspended on a thread above the void, waiting to snap. Then his lungs filled with air and his shaking gradually slowed. Stiles rubbed soothing circles into his back. Scott leaned his weight into him, let his head loll back against his shoulder.

            “Breathe, Scotty, deep breaths. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

            “You—you still—” Scott wheezed through a weak cough. Stiles held up the inhaler again but Scott shook his head. He pressed it into Scott’s palm, wrapping their fingers around it.

            “Ever since I saw you get wheeled off to the emergency room in eighth grade I’ve always kept one on me. You think I’m just gunna stop cause you got some new wolfy powers? Fat chance.” Stiles looked at him out of the corner of his eye and shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Scott’s heart broke all over again.

            He cried with wanton abandon, burying his face in Stiles’ neck, fingers gripping a fistful of his shirt. Stiles, startled, fell back, so Scott lay half atop him. For a second his hands hovered in hesitation before gripping Scott’s back to sooth his anguish with gentle rubs.

            “Dude, it’s just an inhaler, I mean, I know I’m great, but I’m not _that_ great.”

            “You are!” Scott’s words squeezed out between two sobs. “Stiles, you are that great, and I, I—” Scott burrowed into Stiles’ chest, his tears staining the white, cotton fabric. “Stiles, I killed you. I killed my best friend.” Scott lifted his face and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. The wet streaks on his cheeks shone in the moonlight. “I’m such a fucking coward. You’re going to _die_ and I never, I never even told you…” Scott bit his lip, hiding his face in the crux of his arm.

            “What, Scotty?” Stiles peeled his arm away, tucked a finger gently under his chin and lifted his face. “Never told me what?”

            Stiles’ eyes caught the moon, held its shimmer in their lipid brown. The gentle curve of his upper lip, turned ever so slightly down with worry, glistened from where he’d licked it. Scott felt his pulse from the finger cupped against his cheek, skin soft and scented. His eyebrows knit together in concern, forehead ridged with doubt. Scott’s heart ached, his blood calling out with every beat. He’d never been so in love.

            When he pressed his mouth to Stiles’, it was in a sudden rush, devoid of finesse, but possessed of the sort of grace reserved for the condemned. It was hurried, Scott’s hands fisting into Stiles’ shirt to propel himself forward, a lifeline to hold him steady in the heady crash racing through his body. Scott pressed, mouth opening to taste, his tongue running over the chapped, peeling skin of Stiles’ bottom lip. A shiver ran up his spine when Stiles’ own mouth parted to grant hi entry, the soft breath of his moan the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. In his urgency Scott tipped them backwards, their weight too much for the hand Stiles had thrown out behind him to steady himself from Scott’s sudden courage. Haloed by grass, Stiles lay enthroned beneath Scott’s body, mouth still pressed to his.

            Who could say which of them started laughing first? It bubbled forth unbidden, mouths full of it, shoulders shaking, chests aching from the awful hurt of feeling too long held in. Scott rolled off him, their heads knocking, strands of grass tickling his ear. His fingers found Stiles’, intertwining with practiced ease, slotting against the other like they were cut from the same mold. Overhead, the stars winked.

            “If I knew all it took for me to get you to kiss me was dying, Scotty, trust me, I’d have died _years_ ago.” Out of the corner of his eye Scott could see him turn to look at him. A dopey grin spread over his face, cheeks colored rose. “Seriously, what took you so long?”

            Scott huffed out a laugh, all the strength in his body in the hand that held Stiles’, in his feet, flat on the ground, gripping against the pull of gravity which threatened to hurl him off into space. He felt like floating. “I don’t know. I…I don’t know.” Scott rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow. He looked down at Stiles, let his fingers ghost over the ends of his hair, picking out stray bits of grass. “I kept it a secret for so long, I just…it became a part of me, you know? Like, if I ever said it out loud I’d—”

            “Shatter.” Scott met Stiles’ gaze, stilled by its quiet intensity. Stiles lifted up, kissed Scott with a knowing that scared him. He lowered back down, hand rubbing gently along his flank.

            “Yeah. Yeah.” Scott cast his eyes moonwards, over the lacrosse field, the school, silent witnesses to his confession. “How do you tell your best friend you love him? That you—that you’ve always loved him.”

            Scott couldn’t meet Stiles’ eye, his heartbeat a river of blood in his ears. He felt fingers on his chest, gripping his shirt and pulling him down till his mouth met Stiles’. A tongue darted across his lips, sweet as liquor and twice as intoxicating. His head swam as hands gripped his face, holding him in the thrall of Stiles’ kiss, till he was out of breath and his cheeks tinged pink.

            “Like that.”

            For a moment they stayed like that, unmoving, foreheads pressed together, eyes half-lidded, Scott’s nose full of the smell of Stiles, the rolling waves of _want_ and _trust_ and _love_. His fingers traced his jaw, travelled down the slender curve of his neck, tapped a message on his collarbone. They stayed there till the air grew crisp and their knees and backs ached. They stayed till they shivered, hugging the other close for warmth. They stayed till their lips grew chapped from kissing, till their tongue swelled and grew thick and lazy with the taste of the other. They stayed till sleep overcame them, sudden as summer rain. Scott laid his head, heavy with the hour, on Stiles’ chest, let his fingers find Stiles’ once more. He breathed him in, held him in his lungs for as long as he could, imagined he saw him rising into the night sky with his breath, lost amongst the stars.

 

            The dawn rose rich and ruddy as scrambled eggs, the eastern sky warm with yellows and pinks as fresh as papayas. Scott rubbed at his eyes, picking out grains of sleep, his stomach rumbling from prolonged emptiness. He pushed off of Stiles’ chest with a yawn, stretching out the kinks knotted along the thread of his spine. His fingers brushed against Stiles’ arms. He shivered from the cold.

            Stiles lay still as stone, eyes shut in sleep everlasting. The sun shone on his lashes, so they seemed to catch fire, seemed to blaze in the wet morning. Scott’s shirt, wet with dew, clung to his back. A cold unlike any he’d known crept up his body, dug deep into his stomach, where a lack weighted heavy as if he’d swallowed rocks. With shaky fingers he reached out, cupped Stiles’ face, perfect as marble and just as still. Until he moved.

            “Five more minutes,” Stiles grumbled, rolling onto his side and hiding his face in his arms. Scott sat, open-mouthed and flabbergasted, as Stiles snuggled into the ground. With unbelieving hands he shook him. “Grrhmm, _dude_! I’m sleeping!”

            “Stiles.” Scott tried to keep his voice calm and level, tried not to shout, with joy and confusion and barely contained elation. “Stiles!”

            “What?” Stiles uncovered his face to glare up at Scott, backlit and glowing, the sun a bright egg behind his head.

            “You’re _alive_.”

 

            They waited till eight to call Deaton, stopping first at a 24-hour diner for breakfast. Though he was starving, Scott couldn’t concentrate enough to eat. He kept reaching across the table to touch Stiles, to brush a crumb from his sleeve, or else to just to let his knuckles rest against the skin of his wrist. He still couldn’t believe it, eyes anxiously darting to the clock. Every second felt borrow, like any moment Death would check his watch and come calling.

            Stiles, on the other hand, ate much as he always did, which is to say like a starved man, barely pausing to chew. He wolfed down a plate of eggs and a helping of toast, drank cup after cup of coffee, till he buzzed in the booth across from Scott. He seemed to float, buoyant, the weight of his own mortality momentarily forgotten. He speared a piece of French toast off of Scott’s plate.

            “You gunna eat that?”

            While Stiles settled up at the register, Scott phoned Deaton. He worried a circle in the parking lot, hand tense against his ear. Just as Scott worried it would ring over into voicemail, Deaton picked up.

            “Scott? Is everything alright?”

            “Hey, yeah, I mean, sorta?” Scott rubbed at the nape of his neck, the tension from his shoulders steadying climbing to his brain in the form of a tension headache. “Sorry to call this early, but it’s an emergency. Okay, well, not really. But kinda?”

            “I…I’m not sure I understand. Scott, are you feeling okay?” In the background, Scott heard the rustle of bedsheets.

            “Yeah, yeah, no, I’m fine, great, even.” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip. Inside, Stiles walked back to their table to drop a couple bills and snag a stray bit of crust he’d missed earlier.

            “I’m glad you’re staying optimistic in spite of the unfortunate circumstances. Have you heard from Sheriff Stilinski?”

            “That’s why I’m calling. I won’t be hearing from the Stiles’ dad.”

            “Why is that?”

            “Because Stiles…isn’t dead?”

            Silence stretched out on the line. Stiles walked out, nodding at him to ask _what’d he say_? Scott shrugged and shook his head, turning his back to Stiles and plugging his ear with a finger.

            “I see.” There was a concerned, worrying tone to Deaton’s voice, which Scott hoped was cellular distortion. “Scott, I think you better come down to the clinic. Both of you.”

            “Okay. Okay, yeah, we figured. We can head over now.”

            “It’ll take me at least forty five minutes to get there, I have to make a few calls first. Meet me there at nine.”

            “How are we supposed to kill an hour?” Stiles asked after Scott had recapped the news, slamming the Jeep’s driver side door shut.

            Scott winced, at the sharp metal clang and the unfortunate diction. “Can we not say kill? Not yet, at least?”

            “Right,” Stiles worked his key into the ignition, backed up out of the parking space, “sorry. But seriously, what’re we supposed to do for an hour?”

            “I don’t know.” Scott buckled in, the strap snug against the roiling knot of uncertainty in his gut. He wanted desperately for something to fiddle with, a pen to click or paper to tear. His fingers twitched and he balled his hands into fists to keep them still. “Maybe we could just drive around?”

            “Yeah.” Stiles licked his lips, darted his gaze left and right before pulling out onto the street. “Yeah, sounds good.” He caught Scott’s reflection in the rearview.

            They drove down Main, windows down to let the crisp breeze of morning whip across their faces. Scott leaned his head back and let his eyes drift shut. He let himself drift from the car, past the familiarity of duct tape adhesive, of sweat-stained lacrosse jerseys, Stiles’ Old Spice deodorant, and out into the streets, to the heady scent of fresh cut grass, the ink of newspapers molding in the puddles where they’d been tossed, the crisp smell of heated metal. Further still, to ground coffee so strong he could taste it, eggs sizzling in butter, toast just shy of burning. His stomach rumbled and he felt a hand on his knee.

            He started, jerking awake. His eyes snapped open to Stiles’, who looked at him, hurt and confused, brows knitted together in concern. His hand hovered in the air, uncertain. He lowered it back to the wheel.

            “Sorry! I just…sorry.” Stiles shifted in his seat, tightened his grip on the steering wheel and hunched his shoulders higher up his neck.

            “No, no, I drifted off it,” Scott grabbed Stiles’ hand, prying his fingers free and clasping them in his own, “you just startled me, is all.”

            Gradually Stiles’ shoulders softened, and the fingers Scott stroked lost this rigid hardness, conforming to the soft shape that could fit in Scott’s palm. His thumb traced Stiles’ pulse.

            “So, last night, am I right?” Stiles tried for conversational, tone forced casual, but Scott heard the anxious uptick of his heartbeat, the frantic hurrying of his blood.

            “Yeah. It was…something.” Scott swallowed the lump growing in his throat. “Sorry I—”

            “No, that’s not—I mean, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Stiles wrapped Scott’s fingers in his and squeezed. “Except for taking forever to tell me you want to bone me.”

            Scott snorted, letting go of Stiles’ hand to shove his shoulder. “I don’t seem to recall you making any bold proclamations either.”

            “Oh, sure, like I’m gunna just tell my best, incredibly hot, sexy-werewolf friend, _hey, I know you have your pick of literally anyone in town, but maybe consider your dorky human buddy Stiles_. Great plan, Scott.”

            A faint blush crept onto Scott’s cheeks, the pink matching the flush working its way up Stiles’ neck. He leaned across the seat to press his lips to Stiles’ cheek.

            “It would have worked,” he whispered into his ear. Stiles swerved and narrowly missed the curb. “Dude, the road.”

            “Sorry, sorry.” Stiles leveled out and found the right lane again. “Blame it on the sudden loss of blood to my brain.”

            Scott grinned, his own dick swelling in the confines of his jeans. Stiles turned the corner and pulled into the vet’s parking lot. He had his pock of spots in the empty lot. He parked and cut the engine. He turned to Scott, lips wet from where he’d dragged his tongue across them. Scott’s hand slid slowly up Stiles’ thigh. The air grew thick with the spiced scent of their mingled arousal. Scott tasted cinnamon. Stiles’ pants began to vibrate.

            “Shit,” Stiles swore, digging into his pocket. Scott threw his head back against the headrest, belly aching from laughing. “It’s my dad.”

            Scott waited outside the car while Stiles told his dad the good news. He did his best not to listen in, but the palpable joy was hard to ignore. He watched the smile spread over Stiles’ face, listened to his heartbeat uptick. He felt more than saw the tears pooling in his eyes when his father told him he loved him.

            Still, a persistent worry nagged at Scott’s stomach like an ulcer. He bit his nails into the meat of his palm, drawing in long, steady breathes. He let go when Stiles stepped out of the Jeep.

            “I take it he was happy?” Scott asked as Stiles came to lean against the side of the car next to him. Their shoulders brushed, and neither of them moved away from the touch. Even though the day had begun to warm, the sun rising steadying over the treetops, Scott could feel the heat from Stiles’ thigh where it rested against his own.

            “Ecstatic. He said he’s throwing a party to celebrate. Everyone’s invited.”

            Scott huffed out a laugh, remembering the weight of the Sheriff’s gaze, how his fingers had itched towards his gun. “Sounds fun. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

            “He said everyone, Scott.” Stiles pushed off the car to stand in from of his best friend. “That means especially you.”

            Whatever excuse Scott opened his mouth to make was lost to the kiss Stiles pressed to his lips. He laid a hand on the small of his back and pulled Stiles in close. Their hips slotted together, like two custom pieces, made for the other.

            When they heard engines they slid apart, reluctant and slow as molasses. Scott was surprised to see not one but two cars pull into the parking lot. He stepped up to Derek’s car as he opened the door, arms wide for a hug.

            “Derek, I…what’re you doing here?”

            “Nice to see you too, Scott.” They patted the other on the back, stepped apart. “Deaton called me.” He nodded to the vet. “Let’s take a walk.”

            “Sure, but I have to talk to—” Scott pointed to Deaton before Derek wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leading him away from the clinic.

            “Let’s talk a walk _now_.”

            “But Stiles—” Scott twisted under Derek’s arm to see Deaton leading Stiles inside.

            “Stiles will be fine with me, Scott. Derek has something important to tell you.”

            Reluctant, but with little other choice, Scott allowed himself to be led into the copse of trees in which the clinic was nestled. Derek let his arm slide off Scott’s shoulders. They turned to look at each other. Derek grinned.

            “It’s good to see you, Scott.”

            Scott’s head swam, thrown by the seeming non-sequitur, heart still buzzing with anxious worry. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I mean, you too, dude. But really, I need to—”

            “Deaton told me.” Scott looked at Derek, wide-eyed. “About the bite. Though I must say, Stiles is looking human and scrappy as ever.”

            “Well that’s sorta what we came over to talk to Deaton about.” Scott toed a clump of grass, leaning his back against a trunk. “Why didn’t he…I mean, if the bite didn’t turn him, shouldn’t he be…?” Scott did not want to give breath to the word.

            “Ordinarily, yes. But it’s safe to say you didn’t give him an ordinary bite.”

            “There’s more than one type of bite?” Scott’s mind reeled. “What…how is that even possible?”

            Derek exuded an awkward tension. “Normally, this sort of thing would be explained to you by your Alpha. But, well.”

            “Peter’s not the most forthcoming.”

            “Right, so bear with me. Scott, when two people are…in love, they—”

            “Dude!” Scott wrinkled his nose and nearly slid off the tree to the ground. “I know where babies come from. My mom’s a nurse.”

            “Will you let me finish? This isn’t the Birds and the Bees.” Scott shoved his hands as deep into his pockets as they would go and mumbled a quiet _sorry_. “When two people are in love,” he shot Scott a warning glare, “and one of them is a _werewolf_ ,” his voice dropped for emphasis, “the wolf might…mark its mate. With a bite.”

            Scott was almost certain he’d heard Derek correctly, but that was impossible. He wiggled his pinkie in his ear, more as a tactic to buy time than anything else. “I’m sorry, they what?”

            Derek sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, shoulders suddenly tense. “It doesn’t always happen. Maybe one in four. It requires an exceptionally strong…bond. Between the mates.”

            “Okay, you keep using that word.” Derek quirked an eyebrow, waiting. “Stiles and I aren’t, I mean, he’s not my…you know.”

            “Mate?” Scott’s stomach did a fluttery somersault at the notion. “I hate to ruin whatever reveal you two were working up towards, but you _reek_ of Stiles. I clocked it the second I stepped out of the car.”

            Scott’s cheeks flushed red and he looked away from Derek’s smirk. Yet some part of him thrilled at the idea of being covered in Stiles’ scent, at everyone knowing they’d been together, that Stiles was _his_. “I mean, yeah okay we,” Scott rolled his wrist in the air, “you know.”

            “Fucked?”

            Scott felt his face on fire and stumbled over his words in his hurry. “No! I mean, no? We sorta—”

            Derek held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t need the details. Or the nightmares.”

            “But we didn’t! Yet. I mean…” Scott groaned, frustrated. He started to pace, Derek’s eyes following his frantic half circle trajectory. “But this doesn’t make sense, when I bit Stiles we hadn’t even kissed. We hadn’t done anything. How could he be my mate?”

            Derek rolled his eyes up to the robin shell blue of the sky. He chuckled and shook his head. “Teenagers.” Derek caught Scott with both hands on his shoulders, stilling him. “You love him, Scott. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who has eyes. Except apparently you two. Maybe the wolf just got tired of waiting.”

            Scott nodded, infinitesimal bobs of his head. He’d thought he’d finally caught up on all the weird in his life, was finally up to date on the supernatural lowdown. He felt a little lightheaded, but he couldn’t deny the truth of Derek’s reasoning.

            “So, what does it mean? That Stiles is my…” Derek waited, drawing out the silence with a tiny, encouraging nod.

            “…mate?” Scott nodded. “That’s a conversation for you and Stiles. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, he’s not going to turn into a werewolf. Or die. His scent’s a bit different, but the mating bite’s changes are more symbolic than physiological.”

            “His scent?” Scott thought back to the car ride over, the burnt coffee smell overlaid with sugary syrup, beneath it the spiced musk of Stiles’ body wash. He thought of how his skin had tasted, on the lacrosse field, that zest of sweat, the smell of dry erase markers and motor oil. “He doesn’t smell any different to me.”

            Derek smirked. “Of course not. It took you this long to realize you were in love with him, you’re not really one for marking subtle differences. But to me? Or any supernatural creature that comes within ten feet of him? Instantly tell he’s mated. You’ve marked your territory, so to speak.”

            Scott wrinkled his nose at the associated image, but only for a second. “So I’ve made him a target?”

            “No more than he was being a True Alpha’s best friend.” Scott’s face fell, worry dragging down the corners of his mouth. He wanted to believe Derek, but the enormity of what he’d done, what it meant, weighed heavy on him. Derek looped an arm around his shoulders and led him back to the parking lot.

            Stiles’ Jeep was gone. Deaton knelt on the back seat of his car, grabbing a few folders that had fallen to the floor. A wild panic seized Scott. “Where’s—?”

            “I sent Stiles home. He should see his father; I’m sure he’s been worried sick. And I figured he’d want some time to…adjust to the news. I assume Derek’s filled you in?”

            Scott nodded numbly. The sun shone bright on his face. The glare made him squint. Derek ushered him towards the passenger seat of his car.

            “Come on,” he said, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

            Scott offered for Derek to come in when he dropped him off,  but left Scott on the curb, saying he had some business to finish. Scott let himself in, called to the empty house. A note on the fridge told him his mom was working a double and would be home that evening. Scott shucked off his shoes and padded his way upstairs. He collapsed into bed, suddenly exhausted.

            He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Everything Derek had said swam in his mind. He felt lost, adrift in a strange new sea. His thoughts returned endlessly to Stiles. Scott wanted desperately to call him, but didn’t. Stiles had left without saying anything, hadn’t texted. Scott figured he wanted space, but how much? He replayed the previous night, lingered over the taste of Stiles on his lips. But had the morning’s revelation been too much? Did his kisses now taste only of regret?

            Worry clawed at his mind till well past noon, when Scott dragged himself from bed and trudged down to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He ate over the sink, wolfing it down in two bites before retreating back upstairs. Sated, a wave of fatigue crashed over him as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

            He awoke to the blare of a car horn. Scott bolted upright, rubbing at his eyes. Night had fallen and his room was dark. He stumbled out of bed, opened his window, and leaned out. In his driveway Lydia’s car idled. She spotted him and rolled down her own window, not bothering to step out of the car.

            “You’re not going dressed like that, are you?” She raised her voice to be heard over the rumble of the engine, but Scott could have heard her if she whispered. He still wouldn’t have understood what she meant.

            “Go where?” He shouted.

            “Stiles’ party!”

            Scott splashed some water on his face and changed his jeans. He smoothed out the front of his shirt as he bounded down the stairs. Lydia smiled at him as he slid into the passenger seat.

            “Stiles’ party?” Scott buckled up as Lydia pulled out of his driveway. He checked his phone—still nothing. “Are you sure I’m invited?”

            Lydia looked at him like he’d asked her if Marie Antoinette knew a good hairdresser. She didn’t bother to answer, just twisted round in her seat to back out of his driveway.

            “So, you managed to not kill Stiles.” She threw him a smile as she changed lanes. “That’s good.”

            Scott’s face colored pink, from shame or embarrassment he couldn’t say. Lydia flicked on the radio as she turned onto Maple. Scott was grateful not to have to make conversation. Instead, he watched her tap along to Harry Styles’ new single and tried to untangle the knots in his stomach. There were more cars in the driveway than he expected. They parked on the street and when they knocked Sheriff Stilinski opened the door.

            “Scott, Lydia! You made it!” He was dressed in his civvies, two top buttons undone, and the half-empty beer in his hand explained the flush on his cheeks. He pulled them both into a one-armed hug. He clapped Scott on the shoulder. “Everyone else is in the living room.” He turned to lead them inside. “Stiles has been waiting for you.”

            A chorus of hellos greeted them as they walked in. Liam and Mason sat squashed together on an armchair, heads knocked together to watch a video on Mason’s phone. Malia sprawled out on the couch; she waved, failing to get up, but she swung her legs onto the floor to make room for Lydia. Kira sat perched on the arm of the couch. She smiled at Scott and rose to peck a kiss to his check. The coffee table was barely visible beneath the invasion of soda cans and pizza boxes. Scott smiled at everyone in turn, eyes sweeping across the room, looking for—

            “Oh, hey.” Stiles emerged from the kitchen holding a stack of plates, a roll of paper towels tucker under his arm. He set everything down and pulled Scott into a hug. Scott’s face nuzzled his neck; he inhaled the earthy musk of him, joy tinged with a hint of spiced arousal. He’d changed since this morning, and his low cut shirt revealed two pinpricks of red healing at the base of his throat.

            When they pulled apart, Stiles kept his arm looped around Scott’s waist, a hand cupped possessively over his hip. No one seemed to notice; everyone dug into the pizza, the air thick with the smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese. But Scott’s heart thrilled at the show of it, at the pride with which Stiles bore his bite. He placed his own hand on the small of Stiles’ back.

            “So,” Liam mumbled through a mouthful of pizza, “Stiles _isn’t_ a werewolf?” His eyes darted searchingly between Stiles and Scott.

            “Nope, still regular ‘ol boring human Stiles. No werewolf nothing.”

            “Oh, Stiles.” Lydia sipped her coke. “No one said we thought you were human.”

            “But he’s not going to die, right?” Malia sat up straight and sniffed the air. “You don’t smell like you’re dying. You smell…different. A bit like Scott. But not dead.”  Scott’s heart skipped a beat and he resisted the urge to look at Stiles, to draw away.

            Stiles laughed joylessly. “Thanks, I showered.”

            “Stiles isn’t dying,” Scott said, “and he won’t be turning into a werewolf. According to Deaton and Derek, he’s going to be okay.”

            There was a general easing of the room, the tension suddenly dissipated. Scott shared a hint of a smile with Stiles; he felt his thumb rub the skin of his hip, just beneath his shirt.

            “So was it a mating bite then?”

            Stiles snorted, sip of soda rushing up his nose. Scott let out a silent gasp, his face flushing a deep scarlet. Liam chocked on a bite of pizza, Lydia pointedly stared at her phone, and Kira looked anywhere but at the two of them.

            “What’s a mating bite?” Malia, unaware or unfazed by the sudden awkwardness, asked.

            “You know,” Mason rolled his wrist, “a mating bite. When a werewolf marks his mate with a bite.” He looked around the room for back up, and Scott could only be grateful that Stiles’ dad was switching from beer to whiskey in the kitchen. “Does no one read my newsletter? Or fanfiction?”

            “So does that mean—” Liam swallowed and coughed around a piece of crust stuck in his throat, “—does that mean that you two are…” His question dangled unasked in the air.

            Scott looked to Stiles, unsure. He searched his face for direction. He tightened his hand on the back of his shirt to moor him against the waves of doubt threatening to knock him down.

            “Of course they are.” Everyone turned to Kira. “I mean, come on.” She gestured to Scott and Stiles. “Look at them.”

            Four pairs of eyes stared at them. Scott blushed, and his instinct was to let go, to step away, but Stiles held him close.

            “We haven’t—” Stiles licked his lips and looked at Scott. His eyes pleaded.

            “It’s…new,” Scott offered. “Even for us.” He slipped an arm around Stiles’ shoulder, resisted the temptation to kiss his cheek. Stiles beamed.

            “Cool.” Liam flipped up the lid of the pizza box. “Is there more pepperoni?”

            And like that they were eating seconds and thirds, talking about whatever they normally talked about. Malia complained about calculus, Lydia told them about the postcard she’d gotten from Jackson. Mason explains to Liam what LiveJournal was. Parrish stopped by on patrol to congratulate Stiles on ‘not dying.’ Even Scott’s mom dropped in to give them both a hug. She graced Scott with a knowing smile and told him not to hurry home before heading out to sleep off her double.

            The evening wore on and the pizza supplies dwindled. Lydia left first, about half an hour before the others. Mason tossed empty soda cans at Liam, who sliced them in half mid-air. Stiles and Kira huddled together on the couch discussing the relative merits of the Star Wars prequels. The sheriff had shown himself to bed after his fourth whiskey.

            From the doorway to the living room Scott watched his pack, the easy dynamic of them, the smoothness with which they flowed. Malia came up beside him and nudged his shoulder.

            “So, you and Stiles.” Scott followed her gaze. Stiles, half-risen off the couch, gestured emphatically, and the phrase _proto-feminist democracy_ popped out of context. His heart did a funny sort of somersault.

            “Yep, me and Stiles.” He pushed off the doorway and dug his hands into his pockets, trying not to stare at Stiles’ piano fingers.

            “I’m happy for you.” Malia’s face was neutral, but her voice was warm. “You needed someone.”

            “What do you mean? I have all of you.” He nodded towards the others.

            “No, I know. But you’re always taking care of us. You need someone to take care of you.” She rubbed his arm and offered a small smile. Scott caught Stiles’ eye. When he winked, Scott felt a jolt through all his veins.

            Kira left around ten; she offered to give Malia a ride. Mason tried to talk Liam into a piggy-back ( _technically a wolfy-back_ ) ride, but they ended up walking. Scott hung back to help clean up.

            After the noise typical of a pack meet, they fell into an easy quiet. Stiles washed dishes while Scott bagged empty soda cans and crushed pizza boxes. He stuffed everything into the bin in the garage, and when he came back to the kitchen Stiles was up to his wrists in suds, softly humming.

            A sudden boldness overtook him, and Scott saddled up behind Stiles, slipping his arms around his waist. A startled, pleasant surprise fell from Stiles’ lips when Scott hooked his chin on his shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

            “You smell good.” Scott’s lips moved against his throat, his voice a gentle murmur.

            “Pretty sure that’s the dish soap.” Stiles turned around and braced against the sink. He dripped onto the kitchen floor. Their noses rubbed together. Stiles tilted his head and pressed his mouth to Scott’s.

            They kissed in languid sweetness as the sink drained. Scott pushed a hand up under Stiles’ shirt, palm pressed flat on his belly. His thumb rubbed at the faint trail of hair leading to the lip of his jeans.

            Stiles moaned into his mouth, spreading his legs to allow Scott to slot in between his thighs. He ground their crotches together, trembled at the exquisite friction. Stiles grasped the back of Scott’s shirt, tugging him close. Scott felt the wet fabric cling to his skin.

            “Do you—” Stiles’ mouth, red-kissed and swollen, glistened in the dull kitchen light. He licked his lips and blushed. “You don’t have to, but if you want—”

            “Yes.” Scott kissed him, grabbed his face and drank kisses from his mouth. “Yes.”

            They stumbled up the stairs, stopping to touch and taste. They shed their clothes and fell onto Stiles’ bed. Clad only in their underwear, their hands roamed while they ripped at the other’s lips. Stiles pinched a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and Scott arched into the touch with a moan.

            “You like that?” Scott nodded vigorously, eye half-lidded, and Stiles inched down to latch his mouth over a pert bud. Scott keened in a high whine, fingers threaded through Stiles’ hair. Stiles lavished his tongue around Scott’s nipple, sucking the flesh red, teeth scraping against the sensitive aureole.

            “Stiles, _fuck_ , that’s—fuck.” Scott’s body trembled, nails digging into Stiles’ scalp. He panted as Stiles’ mouth popped off his nipple. He kissed a trail up to his jaw, licking along it to nibble the dangling lobe of his ear. “Stiles, fuck, God, _Stiles_.”

            “Yeah, Scotty? What do you want?” Stiles canted his hips into Scott’s, the warm ghost of his breath ruffling his hair. Scott gripped his back, pulling Stiles in closer. His hands spread over the cotton-clad swell of his ass. Their cocks rubbed together in maddening friction. Scott’s skin felt on fire, it was _so good_ , but not enough.

            “I want to feel your dick.” Scott slipped a hand between them, cupping Stiles’ crotch. Stiles moaned and bucked into Scott’s hand. His wet lips opened in an ‘O’, cheeks flushed red.

            Scott gripped Stiles’ dick, marveled at the weight and girth of it in his hand. His thumb rubbed over the head of his cock, swiping at the tacky wet spot on his boxers. He shoved his hand down the front of them. He cupped his balls, rolling them in his palm while he sucked a burnt plum on the side of Stiles’ neck.

            “Fuck, Scott, yeah, do—do that.” Stiles bucked into Scott’s grip, forehead pressed to Scott’s shoulder. “Fuck, _fuck_ , Scott, I need, I—” Stiles scrambled at Scott’s underwear, shoving it down his thighs. Scott’s cock flopped free and smacked against his belly. The tip glistened with a pearl of pre-cum. “Fuck, grandma, what a big—”

            “Don’t.” Scott shut him up with a kiss, sucking his tongue into his mouth. He pushed down Stiles’ boxers, gripping his ass and grinding their dicks together. They groaned as one, breath intermingling as they panted open-mouthed. Stiles wrapped a hand around Scott’s cock, squeezed and tugged till Scott whined.

            “Fuck it’s so big.” Stiles slapped Scott’s dick; the dry _smack_ resounded in the quiet of the night. “I mean, I saw you in the locker room, but…fuck.”

            “You checked me out in the locker room?” Scott nudged a thigh between Stiles’, hand on his hip to steady them.

            “Dude, look at you. Everyone checks you out.”

            A blush crept up Scott’s face, and he hid it by hurrying down Stiles’ body. He nuzzled the dark patch of curls at his crotch. He inhaled the salty smell of cum and sweat, savored the earthy musk of Stiles’ cock.

            He pressed a kiss to the head and parted his lips to take him into his mouth. The taste of him on his tongue sent a thrill down to his throbbing cock. His mouth widened as he slid down, tongue lavishing the underside of his dick.

            “Oh, _shit_ , fuck, you, um, dude _fuck_ , your mouth is like—like, _fuck_.” Stiles threaded a hand in Scott’s hair, not pushing, but resting as Scott began to bob on Stiles’ dick.

            The thickness of it, its fullness, was new and different. Spit dribbled down the shaft and over Stiles’ balls. He moaned in a wordless, guttural litany. Urged on, Scott took all of him in his mouth, the head of Stiles’ cock hitting the back of his throat. He gagged and came up coughing.

            “Shit, shit, I’m sorry, Scotty, are you—”

            “I’m,” Scott swallowed and cleared his throat, “I’m okay. Just got a little overeager.” Stiles’ brow knitted together, and Scott kissed the hard line of his mouth. “I’m fine, I promise.”

            Scott kissed the tension from his shoulders, and their bodies began to move together. Stiles hugged him close, slick dick slipping against Scott’s. He reached down and slid it between Scott’s thighs. He looped an arm around his neck, hand gripping his shoulder. With another hand on his ass, he began to rock into him, dick gliding between the tensed muscles of Scott’s legs.

            “Does that—is this okay?” Stiles’ nose bumped Scott’s cheek. His fingers tightened on his ass.

            “Yeah, that’s good, keep—keep doing that.” Scott wrapped his arms around Stiles’ back, anchored their chests together. He buried his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ thrusts picked up speed, hips slamming together, slick slide of his cock turning to a slow burn. Trapped between their bodies, Scott’s dick rubbed against Stiles’ stomach with each roll of his hips. “Oh, fuck Stiles, this feels so good.”

            “Yeah, Scotty? You like it when I fuck you?” And Scott did, heart racing and cock pulsing just at the thought of it, of Stiles holding him down and opening him up, making him take it, all of it. He dug his nails into his back and sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of Stiles’ neck. He sucked at the bite as Stiles swore and moaned and fucked his thighs.

            Scott smelt it on the air, seconds before Stiles came. The pungent tang sliced through the smell of sweat as his hips stuttered and his hand went white-knuckle on Scott’s shoulder. Scott felt a spurt of hot, tacky cum spray across the inside of his thighs. He squeezed his legs together, and Stiles lazily rode out his orgasm. He panted into Scott’s mouth as he kissed him. They rested their foreheads together.

            “That was—”

            “Yeah.” Scott kissed him again and again. He marveled at it—kissing Stiles, being able to kiss Stiles, after so long denying himself. He didn’t think he’d ever stop, now.

            Scott felt fingers tracing the seam of his ass, a thumb ruffling the wisp of hair at the top of his crack. Stiles slid a finger down to tease at his hole. Scott gasped at the newness of it, strange and arousing, a sudden thrill uncoiling in his belly as Stiles circled the ring of tense muscle. Stiles slipped a hand down between them and wrapped it around Scott’s cock.

            “Your turn, Scotty, come on. Come for me.” Stiles twisted his grip, thumb rubbing over Scott’s flared slit. He wiggled the tip of a finger inside Scott’s ass and his whole body trembled.

            Scott clung to Stiles as the tendons in his neck pulled taunt. His toes curled into the mattress and his asshole winked and tightened around Stiles’ finger. His balls lifted up against his body, and he screwed his eyes shut.

            “Fuck, Stiles, I’m gunna—”

            “Yeah, Scotty, come on.” Stiles tugged him off, wrist pumping and whipping between them. With a strangled groan, Scott spilled across Stiles’ fingers, cum smattering across their bellies. Stiles stroked a few languid lengths before wiping his hands off on the sheets.

            They gathered the other into their arms. The air was thick with the smell of them, their ragged breath the only sound. Scott peppered kisses over the bruises he’d bitten onto Stiles’ neck.

            “You didn’t break the skin, did you?” Stiles stroked down the highway of Scott’s spine.

            “No. Not this time.” Scott nipped at Stiles’ jaw, kissed him, quick, on the lips. “Guess I don’t need to anymore.” Stiles palmed the small of Scott’s back.

            Moonlight spilled across the carpet. Through the window Scott spied a sprinkle of stars. He caught a hint of the night air, tepid and moist. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

            “So. Mates.” Stiles’ tone was muted, his heart still racing, Scott hoped, from the sex.

            “Look, I—” Scott swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. Despite the summer swelter he felt cold. “We don’t…you don’t have to do—to be—anything you’re not comfortable with.”

            Stiles scooted back, not out of Scott’s embrace, just enough to look at him without his eyes crossing. He searched Scott’s face, and when he kissed him, it made Scott think of rain, of draught coming to an end.

            “I’m yours, Scott. I’m sorry it took us so long to figure it out. Thank goodness you, some part of you, finally did. Because _this_ ,” he gestured to their naked, intertwined bodies, the rapidly cooling puddles of cum, “is fucking awesome, and I’m pissed we didn’t start this sooner.” Stiles hugged him close, and when he spoke it was a rumble from his chest, pressed against Scott’s ear. “I don’t know what all being a mate entails, but if it means more of this, more of _you_ , then I’m all in. Because I’m yours, Scott. I always have been.”

            And as they fell asleep, wrapped in the other’s arms, Scott knew he always would be.


End file.
